


Midsummer's Night

by ICryYouMercy (TrafalgarsLaw)



Category: A Midsummer Night's Dream - All Media Types
Genre: Biting, M/M, also what is probably the most in-explicit smut ever written
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-03
Updated: 2014-07-03
Packaged: 2018-02-07 07:19:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,386
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1889952
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TrafalgarsLaw/pseuds/ICryYouMercy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>because clearly, Oberon needs to get laid something terrible.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Midsummer's Night

Oberon can't really remember when it started, anymore. He is fairly certain that it must have started at some point, though. Or at least, something must have started. Or maybe it simply changed. He isn't quite sure about it, and it is rather easy to lose time when dealing with eternity.

Still, at some point, something changed, and these days, he is rather irritable, and rather easily annoyed, finds himself shouting at Puck for even the most minor of offenses, and yet leaning far closer than he would usually have done, finds himself touching Puck rather more often than would be strictly necessary, and he knows that Puck notices, and knows that his friend worries, and he would like to reassure him, and yet can't, not if he wants to be honest with himself. And lying to a professional liar is neither Oberon's idea of a good time, nor a good idea in and of itself.

And so he wanders through the nightly forest, as easily distracted as amused, and just as easily annoyed once he finds himself unable to concentrate properly yet again.

If he could concentrate, or if he could just get his mind straight enough to ask Puck about it, he might learn that it started around the time Hippolyta had agreed to marry Theseus, and then worsened drastically after Titania had adopted that changeling boy. But then again, thinking about these two events at any length tends to only worsen his anger and short temper, so it might be just as well he isn't thinking too straight at the moment.

***

It's midsummer's night, and the air is heavy and damp with the smell of blooming trees and flowers, and Oberon can feel his hair, sticky and warm, resting against his neck and shoulders, the collar of his lose flowing shirt a constant and inescapable reminder of the heat where it rests against his chest and back, and he can feel drops of sweat running down along his spine.

He's harsher to Titania than he might usually be, shouts and gestures in a futile attempt to redirect the tension slowly building into a blinding headache, spreading slowly from the back of his neck upwards and forwards. But Titania doesn't rise to the challenge, doesn't deliver the release he so desperately needs, turning around and leaving, and Oberon stares at the place where she just stood, a hollow feeling in his chest, and the desperate knowledge that perhaps, he should start a fight, just for the sheer helpless relief of clean pain and anger.

Instead, he reaches out for Puck, pulling him closer than need be, a hand buried in Puck's hair, and he starts talking, starts giving orders, and instead gets distracted by the smell of water and dirt and sweat, and he doesn't want to let him go, doesn't want this curious touch to end, and so he jerks his hand back, and he thinks, just for a second, that maybe he's hurt his friend, and then Puck nods, the thin strands of his messy hair thin lines of beautiful pressure against Oberon's fingers.

And then Puck is gone, and Oberon's mind is still reeling, still trying to process the curious calm that seems to radiate from his hand, the warmth of another man's body a sense memory he wishes he could forget, and yet wants to cling to for as long as he possibly can, and he shakes himself out of it, cursing under his breath, trying to focus instead on the Athenian lovers, and not on memory of just how pliantly Puck followed his orders, and how that pliancy might be employed, not for mischief but for joy.

It's not a thought he finds himself willing or even capable to consider any further, not in a night like that, not when he's trying to plan revenge, not when he needs all his wits to make Titania suffer the way he is doing now. And so he promises himself to help the girl, even though he fails to see why she would want a man who seems to hate her this much.

And Puck is back, and Oberon looks at him, and tells himself that he doesn't want to touch all that bare skin, doesn't want to leave traces of himself all over it, marking his friend as his, his, his alone, and when that doesn't work, he pulls Puck close, trying to touch as much of him as possible, and the warmth of the night makes their awkward embrace feel much closer and heavier than it would seem, and it's still not enough, not when Puck leans back against him, not when Oberon can feel the heartbeat and hasty breath under his fingers, and he leans closer, closer, and he could press his mouth right there, against Puck's neck, taste the sweat and dirt on his skin, could bite and test how Puck's pliancy would hold up against pain, when he realises has he is doing, frantically jerking back, sends Puck away under the next excuse he can think of, and goes to find and charm Titania, if only for the futile hope to share his suffering with another person.

***

He finds Puck, and then seconds later, Titania courting a man with an asses head, and for just the shortest moment, he is sufficiently distracted and amused by his queen's predicament to forget about Puck standing next to him.

And then the lovers stumble back into their field of view, and Puck turns away, standing far too close to the dark-haired woman, and Oberon manages to think that maybe it's guilt, the way he keeps touching her, and then her lover, and the first thing he does, when he manages to form proper words again over the anger rising in his throat, is to shout at Puck, blame him, curse him, and he gestures, keeps gesturing, desperate to keep his hands busy, because the only thing he can think off is to pull Puck closer, run his hands over skin stained with mud and dirt and sweat, remind Puck that he is Oberon's, and Oberon's alone, that he can't simply wander through the world, touching others, touching humans, of all things, and Puck's proud report that Helena of Athens is on her way to the glade where Demetrius is still lying asleep manages to draw his attention for long enough to stand back, his hands clenched behind his back, willing himself not to think about anything but the lover's quarrel happening in front of their eyes.

And he almost manages, if it weren't for Puck, barely a foot away from him, bare shoulders shaking with badly suppressed giggles, and Oberon can't think, and his reaction is pure self-preservation, because he needs to cool down, needs to be able to look at Puck again without automatically tracing the paths the drops of sweat running down Puck's chest leave in the dirt he's covered in.

He drags himself and his friend to the next pond he can find, the cool water a shock after the warm night air, and he forces Puck into the water, anger a poor deflection for the helpless desire to pull him closer, to touch all that skin on display, to trace the lines of muscle and bones with his fingers instead of with his eyes.

And when Puck resurfaces, leans against Oberon's shins, as though huddling for warmth, but unwilling to leave the position Oberon forced him into, all Oberon's intentions melt away like ice in the sun, and the only thing keeping his hands from straying to places they shouldn't is Puck's constant movement and fidgeting, and he is glad when he's finally able to send him away, to keep Demetrius and Lysander from killing each other.

And as much as he would like to blame Puck for this nights chaos and misrule, he can't but admit to himself that the orders he has given so far have never been entirely clear, has not considered their closeness to the city, has not thought that maybe, on a night like this, more than only one couple would find their way into the woods. And he remains seated at the water's edge for longer than he probably should, waiting while the air gets increasingly tense, waiting until he can't tell anymore whether the drops running down his back and arms are sweat or water, and trying to get his thoughts back under control, trying to focus on his revenge, and his queen, trying to convince himself that it's only their recent fight, and only this terrible night that left him as tense and helpless as he is now.

***

The wind that finally rouses him from his thoughts carries the promise of thunder and rain and sweet, blessed relief, and Oberon manages to stand, shakily and uncertain, and find his way to where Titatia sleeps, arms still slung around Puck's latest victim.

And he wakes his queen, can't help but feel satisfied by her shock and anger and alarm, and when he finally kisses her, warm and soft lips against his own, he thinks finally, and he thinks that now, maybe, given a few more minutes, he might be able to think again.

But the sun rises, and the wind dies down, and Titania slips away into the woods, leaving Oberon standing in a glade while the shadows slowly steal away from morning light, and when he finally turns to leave, there is only Puck, almost invisible in the last remaining shadows, watching him carefully, his eyes darkened by doubt and worry.

***

Oberon spends the next day at Titania's side, in a futile attempt to convince himself that now they've made up again, it would only be a matter of time for the tension in his chest to loosen, and then, when the night comes and he still doesn't feel any better, he tells himself that it must be the thunderstorm in the air, the unfulfilled anticipation of last night, and nothing else.

The city's bell rings out midnight, and for a split second, the city is illuminated by a flash of lightning, before it's swallowed by darkness and the rolling of thunder, and Oberon tells himself to concentrate just for a few moments more, just enough to stumble and dance through yet another house, singing blessings for people he would much rather curse, and telling himself that the next time someone stumbles into his forest without invitation, he would just kill them, and not bother trying to help them.

He clenches his teeth, and when that doesn't help, he starts biting the insides of his cheeks, trying to quell the impulse to hurt and destroy, and watches as Titania disappears into the night again, accompanied by lightning flashes and the now non-stop rolling of the thunder.

For a moment, he stands alone in the empty hall, lost in thought and daydreams. And then, he hears a quiet voice, reciting rather than talking, and when he turns to investigate, his eyes fall on Puck, sprawled in an armchair at the end of the table.

And the way the light falls across the room, deep shadows and sharp contrasts, Oberon can't help but stare, stare as Puck finishes speaking, his hands moving distractedly through the air, muscles moving under pale skin, shadows dancing over his upper body, the dark hiding just enough to entice rather than conceal.

And lightning flashes again, a split second of bright light falling over the line of Puck's throat, perfectly illuminating bruises Oberon is sure weren't there last night, and he stops thinking, stops wondering, stops staring, crosses the room in hasty steps, grabbing Puck's wrist, pulling him up, pulling him closer, and whispers, "Come with me," barely audible over the rolling of thunder.

And Puck smiles, bright and happy and pleased, whispers, "My lord," and follows without any further words, through streets and gates, out of the city, his heart beating harshly enough that Oberon can feel its steady beat under his thumb resting against Puck's forearm, and it's almost too much, and still yet so far from enough that he feels desperate and angry and caged.

When they reach the forest, just before they would step under the protective shadow of the trees, Puck stops. Oberon's first reaction is to let him go, too used to Puck's fierce independence and stubbornness to try and force him into anything he would not willingly do.

Puck, though, closes his free hand around Oberon's, forcing him to keep his grip, and steps closer yet, until they're standing toe to toe, their clasped hands pressed between their chests, and it's too hot, too close, more than Oberon can handle in the dense, dark night.

And then Puck pulls him just a little closer, rising on tiptoes, pressing a careful kiss to Oberon's lips.

For a moment they stand like that, frozen in the innumerable possible outcomes of such a careless game.

And then Oberon raises his free hand, gripping Puck's hair, forcing him to tilt his head just so, pulls him closer, and bites, feels the dry skin of Puck's lips tear against his teeth, and the salt-iron taste of blood spills over his tongue, and the rain finally hits, and the knot of tension in Oberon's chest winds tenser and loser at the same time, stealing all his remaining breath away.

And in the cold and pouring rain, his eyes closed against the water and the lightning flashes, he can finally let himself touch, letting go of Puck's wrist, running his hand over Puck's back, skin slick with rain and sweat, and Oberon can't stop touching, can't let himself lose the sensation of bones under soft skin under his fingertips, and he would free his other hand, try and touch more, but the thin strands of hair are cutting sharp lines of heat across his fingers, and so instead, he finally breaks the kiss, tastes the skin he spent so much time considering, traces the raindrops running down Puck's neck, sweat and dirt and clean, sweet rain under his tongue, and Puck pliantly lets his head be tilted further back, granting Oberon easier access, his hands coming up to rest carefully on the back of Oberon's head and neck, pressing him closer, and Oberon is near enough to feel the soft sighs and moans Puck makes as much as he hears them, quiet sounds almost inaudible over the steady patter of the rain.

And Oberon traces lower, where Puck's collarbones break and end the lines of his throat, and kissing isn't enough, not when Puck is still quiet and composed, not when breathy moans are the strongest reaction he can elicit, not when the tension in his chest is being wound tighter and tighter with every thunderclap, not when he needs, so desperately, needs pain as much as lust to satisfy. And his mouth falls open against the sharp shadow of a bone, and he bites, just barely not hard enough to break the skin.

And Puck, his Puck, doesn't cry out, but tenses, shifts his hands, fists clenching against Oberon's hair, and the sharp immediacy of pain slowly fades into reassuring heat when Puck doesn't let go, even once Oberon does, and so he places another bite, inches away from the first one, still not breaking the skin, but sucking hard enough to bring blood to the surface, and the sound Puck makes in response is clearly audible over rain and wind and thunder, and tension spreads from Oberon's chest into his entire body, he needs to be closer, closer yet, forces himself to stop touching, just for a second, just long enough to remove his shirt, just long enough to miss the warmth of Puck's body against his.

When he tries to step back, one of Puck's hands shifts, pressing flat against his chest, and Oberon freezes, disappointment and anger running hot in his blood, but he stops himself, doesn't reach out, doesn't touch, not when he isn't wanted to, even when he is trembling with desire and even when the only thought he can hold on to is to take and cling.

And then Puck smiles at him, soft and careless, and his hand slides downward, quick touches undoing Oberon's trousers, and he steps closer again, and Oberon can't move, can't think, can only feel the expanse of bare skin pressing against his own, where Puck seems to want this, need this, just as much as he himself does.

So he pulls Puck closer, a hand against his back and the other once more twisted in his hair, and leans down to kiss him, kiss the taste of rain from his lips, and doesn't know where to start touching, doesn't know what is and isn't allowed, on a night like that.

Puck laughs against his lips, joyful as much as amused, and his hands run over Oberon's back, down, down, and further down, pulling him closer yet, pressure just there, pressure more than friction, and it's not enough, not when the water running over their bodies makes every touch slick and light, not when everything that has happened so far has been fuelling Oberon's need instead of sating it.

And he breaks their kiss, rests his forehead against Puck's shoulder, finally helpless now, now he has everything he thought he wanted, and it's still not what he needs, not when he simply doesn't know what to do anymore. "Don't tease," is what he whispers, ashamed of his own weakness.  
Puck pulls his hands back, and that was not what Oberon wanted, but before he can articulate as much, he finds a hand again twisted in his hair, pulling him down to Puck's throat, Puck whispering careful encouragements, and Oberon tries to be gentle, tries not to bite and suck and try to bruise the pale skin under his lips, and then Puck's other hand slides between their bodies, and it's still all pressure, but coupled this time with the glorious friction of Puck's delicate hands.

Oberon bites down, forgetting that there is still skin under his teeth, and he flinches back when he hears Puck's sharp, indrawn breath, and then Puck's hands, both of them, clench tighter, pull him closer, and it's bliss so sharp as to be almost painful, he feels his legs give out, lets Puck catch his weight, and finds himself sprawled on damp earth, Puck's weight a reassuring constancy astride his hips, but now the only point where their bodies touch, exquisitely frustrating.

And then Puck leans forwards, his hands closing around Oberon's wrists, preventing any movement, any attempt at finally finding relief, unmoving until Oberon chokes out a 'yes!', and then leans down to trace kisses over Oberon's neck, much the same as what Oberon had done to him, careful touches until Oberon can't hold still any more, can't breathe or think properly, until the only word his lips can shape is a helpless 'please', and Puck smiles against his skin, and then bites down, teeth sharp against too thin skin, Oberon doesn't know whether to press closer or pull away from the sharp reality of pain, and Puck starts moving, just the slightest movement of his hips, back and forth, friction so careful and slow that it would feel almost like a dream, where it not for the sharp points of pain Puck is leaving across his neck, and Oberon finally, finally gives in, forces his arms to relax, his head falling back against the cold ground, eyes falling closed under the pouring rain.

Puck lets go of his wrists then, his hands returning to where they were before, and this time, Oberon cries out, teeth clenching helplessly against the sound, and when Puck kisses him again, he finally spends, curiously warm against rain-cold skin, and while tension still drains from his body, Puck trembling above him, staring and yet not seeing him, Oberon forces his arms back under his control, and manages to return the favour.

They lie there, catching their breath, until the rain stops, until silver pinpricks of stars spread across the sky again, until the storm is past. And it's grace and blessing and mercy, the way Oberon can finally breathe again, the way Puck still rests against him, pliant and quiet again.

**Author's Note:**

> this all happened because of this Sunday's social-shakespeare read-through of Midsummer Night's Dream, where somehow, we agreed that clearly, the reason that Oberon is so mad at Puck is because Oberon needs to badly to get laid, but somehow fails to realise that Puck would totally be up for that.  
> Uhm. I am very sincerely sorry for this.
> 
> Also, there is a [fanmix](http://8tracks.com/trafalgarslaw/midsummer-s-night). Because clearly, adding classical music to smut makes it art.


End file.
